Chapter 9
Wyatt
The wind has a knife edge this morning, slicing through my coat as I cross to the barn, stinging my cheeks and clearing out everything except the basics. Feed. Water. Check the splint. Keep moving.
The foal lifts her head when I step into the stall, eyes calmer now, breath puffing soft little clouds while she leans into the fresh straw. Emmy's wrap is neat and tight, professional work that saved this animal's life. Every time I see it, I picture her hands working steady as rain. I picture her mouth too, the way she tasted yesterday in the loft, and then I make myself think about fences.
But the thoughts keep circling back. To the way she felt pressed against me on that workbench. How she whispered my name like a prayer. The trust in her eyes when I gave her those keys.
I fork hay, check the latch, run my palm down the filly's neck. "You're going to be fine," I tell her, because saying it out loud makes it real. "You just keep standing."
The words feel like a promise I'm making to myself too.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Remy:
Remy
Aunt May's driving up there Christmas morning whether you want her to or not. Fair warning.
I stare at the message, jaw tightening. My family's been trying to drag me back into the fold for years, ever since Sarah died and I shut everyone out. They mean well, but they don't understand that some walls exist for a reason.
Another text:
Remy
She misses you, man. We all do. Stop punishing yourself for something that wasn't your fault.
I delete both messages without responding. Some conversations are better left buried.
By noon the clouds have thinned, sun hitting the snow in a way that makes the whole pasture glare. I should eat. I should finish the ledger. Instead, I find myself in the kitchen, throwing together beef stew with ingredients I forgot I had. The rhythm of chopping vegetables is soothing, mindless work that keeps my hands busy while my mind wanders to Emmy.
The way she looked yesterday when she said my barn renovation was perfect. How her legs felt wrapped around my waist. The soft sound she made when I kissed her neck.
I'm in dangerous territory, letting someone get this close. But for the first time in five years, dangerous feels worth the risk.
I fill two thermoses with the finished stew and wash up, changing into a clean shirt that doesn't smell like hay and motor oil. The drive into town is slow with slush, Hope Peak looking like a Christmas card with lights blinking along storefront windows and kids building snowmen in the square.
I park outside the clinic and sit for a full minute, gripping the thermoses until the metal bites. Through the window, I can see Emmy moving around inside, hair catching the light, and my pulse kicks up just watching her.
The bell over the door rings when I enter. Carly glances up from the counter and does a little double take when she sees what I'm carrying.
"Delivery?" she asks, too cheerful to be casual.
"Lunch," I say.
"For Emmy." She draws the words out, trying not to grin. "She's in back, probably forgetting to eat again. Go on, I'll make sure you're not disturbed."
The wink she gives me makes heat crawl up my neck, but I nod my thanks and head down the hall.
I find Emmy in the small office, shoulders hunched over a stack of forms, hair twisted into a loose knot that's halfway fallen out. She's wearing that green sweater that makes her eyes look like amber, and when she glances up, those eyes widen with surprise.
"Hi," she says, careful, like the word might spook me.
"I brought stew." I set the thermoses on her desk, suddenly feeling foolish. "It's hot."
Her mouth softens into that smile that does things to my insides. "You cooked?"
"I can read a recipe."
